“Do you live here all alone?” Student #5 abruptly asked.
This question was designed to be totally inappropriate. Unsettling. He could hear Andy Candy’s mother inhale just a little more sharply than before.
“Concentrate on the notes. Try to make your hands move fluidly.”
“I guess if you are a piano teacher, you have to open your door to just about anyone.” He said this with a half-laugh, a subtle tone of nastiness, while bending toward the simple sheet music in front of him. “Even if it’s Ted Bundy or Hannibal Lecter who wants lessons.” He did not have to look at Andy Candy’s mother’s face to imagine the impact those names had. All he had to do was feel the way she shifted about uncomfortably on the piano bench.
“I think I would hate to be alone with strangers so much of the day,” Student #5 said. “I mean there’s no telling who could come walking through that door. It’s not unreasonable to think even some killers want to learn to be musicians.”
He enjoyed sounding so thoughtful, and bent toward the keyboard. “Like, what keeps you safe? Not much, I guess.” He nodded toward a crucifix on the wall. “Not even faith, I bet.”
Student #5 didn’t expect an answer to that provocative question. He doubted there was anything else he could say that would make the mother any more nervous, except his next question, as he rippled through a set of notes:
“Do you keep a gun in the house?”
He heard her cough. Again no answer. This wasn’t a surprise, although he imagined she was churning with replies: “Yes, I keep a Dirty Harry.44 Magnum at my side at all times” or “No, but my neighbor is a cop and he watches out for me,” or “My dogs are savage and trained to attack at my command.”
It was amusing.
The lesson lasted thirty minutes. At the end, Student #5 shook hands with Andy Candy’s mother, who handed him a So You Want to Learn the Piano textbook and several handwritten exercises for his next session. But at the same time, she said, haltingly, “You know, I usually don’t do adult lessons. Mostly just young kids and teens. Can I recommend someone you can continue with?” She was half-gesturing, half-pushing him toward the door.
“Are you sure you can’t? I’ve enjoyed this time so much. I feel like we’ve connected. I’d really like to see you again.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Sorry. I think my next lesson is here.”
“But you advertise ‘Children and Adults’ on the web, when your page comes up…” he persisted falsely.
“I think you need someone with more expertise than me,” she said, trying to sound as final as possible. The more stern her tone, the more nervous it meant she was. This was precisely the sensation that he’d wanted to create. Crumbs.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “But I feel like we were just getting to know each other.” He put a special emphasis on the word know.
Can’t be any more creepy than that, he thought. He reached abruptly for his wallet, a really quick motion that made Andy Candy’s mother recoil slightly, as if he was going to produce a knife or gun and torture, rape, and murder her right then and there. But this was part of his sleight of hand. Houdini would smile, he thought.
As he removed three $20 bills, Student #5 dropped his Massachusetts driver’s license to the floor at Andy Candy’s mother’s feet. Like any polite person-even a scared one-she reached down and picked it up. Anything to hurry him out of her home. But he fumbled with his wallet some more, head down, ignoring the license in her outstretched hand, to give her time to examine the front.
“Massachusetts is a long ways, Mister Munroe,” she said, eyes fixed on the license. Just long enough to get his name, maybe register the town of Charlemont. “I thought you said your name was…” She stopped abruptly, then said, “I thought you said you were local…”
He snatched the license from her hand as if it was on fire. Again, she took a half-step backward. What an actor. I should have been on Broadway.
For the last part of the night, Student #5 parked a half-block away from his destination. It was a neighborhood of modest, cinder-block homes, flat-tiled red roofs, and as many chain link fences as there were palm trees.
He waited.
The first order of business was to make sure there were no cops around. Nor did he want his voice to be picked up on a bug planted in a ceiling light fixture or a telephone wiretap, nor some infrared observation trap camera to identify a heat signature and start clicking frames. What he wanted was a few private moments.
Waiting patiently, Student #5 kept his eyes on a single home.
If I were a drug dealer, he thought, what would I do to guarantee my safety? Especially after being arrested, then unarrested and released.
I would have video monitoring cameras mounted by the front door and the rear entry, a high-tech alarm system. Surely I would have invested in tempered steel bars on windows and doors and a state-of-the art intercom. Lots of electronics in a nondescript, modest house.
What else? A variety of weapons placed in key locations inside. A handgun. A 12-gauge shotgun. Maybe an AK-47. Good for all situations.
Bodyguard? Hired muscle?
Not for the ordinary transactions. I would keep some names on speed dial if an occasion presented itself where I needed some imposing backup, like if I developed a supply or bill-collection issue and needed some intimidation at my side. But for routine business I would rely upon my electronics and my state-of-the-art locking system.
Student #5 wondered whether any of that had been seized or damaged when the police broke in the other night-following his anonymous tip. Probably. But don’t count on it. And repair services in Miami that cater to these sorts of needs work around the clock.
Looking about, up and down the street, as if measuring the depth of night darkness, Student #5 fixed a cheap wig to his head. A maroon baseball hat emblazoned with the letters “UMASS” and a logo of a colonial Minuteman brandishing a musket was scrunched down on his head to hold the wig in place. Then he slid on large aviator sunglasses.
The street outside his car was empty. He exited and walked briskly to the dealer’s house. At the front door, he rang a buzzer and waited.
It took a moment for the answer to come from inside.
“Not doing business right now.”
Student #5 replied: “Not here for that.”
A pause. “Give me your name, remove your hat and sunglasses, and look up into the camera above your left shoulder.”
“No,” Student #5 said firmly.
“Then get the fuck out of-”
He interrupted: “Don’t you want to know who dropped the dime on you?”
A tease that couldn’t be ignored.
Another hesitation. Tinny, intercom reply: “I’m listening.”
“Call this number: 413-555-6161. Make the call from a secure phone, and not one that the cops have tapped. Better figure that every line you’ve got, including the cell phones you purchased today at the mall, are being checked, so get out of your house. You’ve got thirty minutes to make the call.”
He was guessing about the cell phone purchase. Keeping his head down, Student #5 rapidly retreated from the front door.
He won’t go far to make the call.
There are many different types of drug dealers. Hip-hop-styled, gold-chain-wearing, full-entourage-of-hangers-on street types; white-jacketed pharmacists who like to have a little extra sideline; and this guy-a suburban, ex-business-school sort who thought he could make some good cash and fly under the radar by living modestly and staying away from shiny cars, leggy women, and flash. Regardless of the type-they are all smart enough to be armed. A 9mm Glock stuck in his jeans waistband. He’s not Cuban, but he will still wear a loose guayabera shirt to conceal the gun. A preferred drug dealer handgun.